Only Silence Through the Veil
by Riathe Mai
Summary: Spoilers/Setting: One year after The Pilot Summary: It's Halloween, the night when the Veil is the thinnest, the one night when he should be able to feel her, if on no other night of the year, yet he can't. And, because he can't, when he knows he should be able to; he starts to wonder…


**Spoilers: **None, really. This takes place one year after The Pilot

**A/N:** Thanks to Kailene and LoveThemWinchesters. Just because.

**Summary:** It's Halloween, the night when the Veil is the thinnest, the one night when he _should_ be able to feel her, if on no other night of the year, yet he can't. And, because he can't, when he knows he should be able to; he starts to wonder…

~~~~~~~~~~SPN~~~~~~~~~~

**Only Silence Through the Veil**

_Why can't I feel you?_

I don't even know where the thought came from. It was just suddenly there, popping into my head out of nowhere; but now that it's there, it won't leave. It plays over and over again in my mind; a one-song playlist set on loop. It's my voice, though. It's _me,_ who's asking and it's _me,_ who's trying to understand; my brain digging into the mystery with insistent and raw, bloody hands.

_Why can't I feel you?_

It's Halloween. All Souls Night. It's the one time in the whole year when the Veil is the thinnest, if you believe in such things; when whatever barrier stands between the Living and the Dead is so faint, so insubstantial it might as well not be there at all. It's the night when our loved ones, the ones we've lost, the ones who've died, are so close we should be able to just reach out our hands and touch them.

_Why can't I feel you?_

It doesn't seem fair. It's not fair. It's not right on so many levels, I can't even articulate it. The words are too small, too hollow, too insubstantial.

Like the Veil, tonight.

_Why can't I feel you?_

I should be able to, shouldn't I? If our loved ones are so close, so accessible, so... receptive and eager to make themselves known...

_Why can't I feel you? _

Why? If the only requirement to that eternal tether is love... well, we certainly should qualify. I loved you enough. _We_ loved enough. That, I have never doubted.

_Why can't I feel you?_

And, just like that, another thought seeps in; a sibilant whisper so subtle I'm not sure it's my voice that says it.

_Because, you're not there._

It hurts so much to hear those words; to admit they're most likely my own realization—though, not acceptance. No, never that—giving them voice. Better to believe the impediment is mine. Better to believe that I am numb or blocked, closed off from you due to my own grief, my own guilt. Better to believe that I can't feel you, than to have to accept that you're not here, that you didn't stay.

God, how selfish does this make me? How cruel and inconsiderate? Knowing what I know... Knowing how things are supposed to be... I loved you; love you still. I should want you to be happy. I should want you to be at peace, to have the rest and the reward you earned, that you deserve. Yet, all I can feel is hurt that you didn't stay, hurt that I wasn't enough to keep you here; that I'm not your _unfinished business_ that keeps you tethered to this plane, this side of the Veil; even though what awaits you on the other side is so much better than what lingers here.

See? Selfish. I say I love you and then wish you trapped. I'm sorry. It's just my own doubts bubbling up to the surface; tar seeping through the ground I'm standing on until I start to question the integrity of my footing.

It's just that it's Halloween, the night when the Veil is the thinnest, the one night when I _should_ be able to feel you, if on no other night of the year, and I can't. And, because I can't, when I know I should be able to; I start to wonder:

Maybe, I didn't love you enough. Maybe, if I'd loved you just a little more. Maybe, then, you'd have stayed.

I'm sorry. It's just that I miss you; and I'd give almost anything to see you again, to feel your presence and know you're near.

To know you miss me, too.

"She does, Sam."

I heard the crunch of his shoes on the gravelly path behind me seconds before he spoke. Dean can be damned stealthy when he wants to be, so I appreciate the warning even if I do wish it had come a little bit sooner. I didn't realize I was talking aloud. He stops just short of my side; far enough away that I can pretend he can't possibly see the tear tracks on my face.

"You can't know that, Dean."

Something small and white appears just over my shoulder and as I start to turn my head, I catch the aroma of apples and cinnamon.

"Hot apple cider, dude," he says casually, as if he didn't just catch me crying in the middle of a deserted playground behind our _dive_-thru motel. "Like drinking pie!"

My hand reaches up, quite of its own volition, and closes around the cup. As the heat leaches through the Styrofoam and into my fingers, I realize just how cold my hands are. I close them around the cup, breathing in the tangy smell of the cider for a few seconds before taking a tentative sip.

It's hot, but not scalding; drinkable if I sip it and really, really good. Cinnamon and nutmeg leave a subtle bite against my tongue that compliments the sharp tang of sour apple; but it's the heat that traces across my throat and down my chest that leaves the bigger impression. Apparently, more than just my fingers were cold, leaving me to wonder just how long I'd been sitting here lost in my dark thoughts.

"Thanks," I say as a small shiver runs down my spine.

"Don't mention it; and yeah, I think I can."

"You can what?" I ask, but then I remember what I'd accidentally said aloud and what he'd said in response. "How can you possibly know that?"

I cringe at the pleading tone that creeps into my voice and at the way the words catch and trip over the lump of grief in my throat. Why does it feel so much bigger today than, say, yesterday or last week?

Dean just shrugs, looking out over the empty playground. "How can you possibly not? Dude, I met her for, what, all of fifteen minutes; and I could see how much she loved you. You knew her for how long, and you can't?"

Of course, I knew. "But..."

"But, nothin'. Look, I know you think she's... I don't know. Mad at you, or some shit."

"Disappointed."

I say it so quietly, there's no way Dean can hear me; but he sighs so maybe he did.

"In you? Come on, Sammy."

"Just forget it."

"No way, man. You've been sitting out here for over an hour, and I know it's not because you're tryin' to keep the raccoons outta the trash barrel over there. And, look; I get it. It's a tough time of year, but..."

"It's Halloween, Dean," I say into the fading steam drifting up from the cup in my hands. I'm hoping he'll take that as a general, sort of all-encompassing explanation, because I don't think I can deliberately and blatantly say the words in my head aloud and to his face.

It doesn't matter that he might have heard them already.

He doesn't say anything, not even to comment with a, 'Well, duh!' His feet shift in the gravel and I wonder if he's going to walk away; either to return to our drafty room and the six-pack he'd stashed in the beat-up mini-fridge when we'd first arrived, or to head to the bar a quarter of a mile up the road and the pretty blonde waitress who'd waited on us at dinner.

He turns and takes a step towards the motel then stops. I hear a swish, and suddenly his coat is draped across my shoulders, the leather warm from his body. The smell is familiar and soothing, and my damn eyes start to well again.

"You know, Sammy," he says quietly. "There are probably a million specific reasons why some people, when they die, just don't cross over. But, if you were to lump all those different reasons into categories, I bet you'd find there really aren't that many. It's mostly anger over how they died and worry over the ones they left behind."

I burrow deeper into his jacket and look at him over my shoulder. His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders hiked up towards his ears against the cold. His gaze is fixed somewhere off into the trees at the edge of the playground.

"If Jessica's moved on..." His gaze flicks to mine then moves away, and I can see how he's trying to be careful. I can't blame him. It can be such a touchy subject, sliding off me one day and rubbing me raw the next.

"Sammy, that's a good thing, man. It don't mean she's disappointed or pissed at you. It means there's nothing she still has to do. She doesn't need revenge, 'cuz she knows you're gonna do right by her. We're gonna find that sonuvabitch and make him pay for everything.

"And, she knows she don't have to look out for you, either."

The look he gives me warns against making him say why. He shifts uncomfortably, digging the toe of his boot into the loose gravel.

"Just... don't you ever think you weren't enough for her, got it?" he says, and there is a flash of anger in his eyes: anger I've only ever seen directed at people who have tried to hurt me.

Apparently, I'm not allowed to hurt me, either.

He turns away and starts walking towards the motel, muttering under his breath about the cold and stupid little brothers who clearly don't have the sense to come in out of it.

"Dean," I call after him.

He stops and looks back over his shoulder. "Friday the 13th Marathon starts in 20 minutes," he says; a big, shit-eating grin on his face. "I'll let you have the pillow to hide behind, Samantha!"

"Thanks," I say sarcastically, because that's the only gratitude he'll accept.

I push myself up off the bench, casting one more hopeful glance into the night, then I turn and follow Dean back to our room.

_~fini~_


End file.
